by Shilpa Raj
‘He wants to kill me! All he cares about is my money,’ Amma wept loudly, as Appa moved towards her again, fist raised to deliver another punch.
Francis grabbed Appa from behind, shouting at him to stop. I don’t know how he managed to control our father who was probably much stronger than he was. I wished my uncles were there to see my brother at that moment. They often teased him that even a boy half his size knew how to ride a bullock cart, hack wood, and catch the drifting attention of girls who passed by. Even Appa had once remarked that any thief who came into our house would initially fear my brother because of his bull-sized frame and broad shoulders, but would quickly be filled with laughter realizing that my brother ‘only squeaked and didn’t bark.’ I resolved never to let Appa forget how Francis handled him this time. Now he knew his son was capable of more than squeaking.
The next morning, I forced my parents to sit far apart from each other on the floor, and insisted that they discuss the events from the night before. I felt awkward and nervous in my new role, but they listened and responded like two earnest children being disciplined by their teacher. They appeared completely helpless.
‘Amma, you caused him to punch you,’ I said bluntly to my mother, blaming her for aggravating the situation with her arguments. I must have learnt the place of women at my grandmother’s feet; I was the product of the village after all. ‘Appa will use your words as an excuse to hit you. You know how short-tempered he is with you!’
She raised her eyebrows sharply, disappointed at my reasoning and hurt by what she saw as my insensitivity. Despite her swollen lips and left eye, she looked ready to take on Appa again. She pointed a finger at him and let loose a fresh stream of accusations, railing at him about his infidelity.
I did my best to calm her down, relieved that Appa didn’t react. He avoided eye contact with her and stared out the window, unable to hide the guilt that bled through his stony mask.
I turned to Appa. ‘It is wrong of you to abuse my mother. You know this.’
He nodded, but didn’t speak.
After nearly an hour of talking to my parents, I congratulated them for having stuck together all these years. They left smiling as though they had finally understood the root cause of their problems. From that day on, I became the mediator in their quarrels.
I am humbled by their trust, but lately have come to resent and dread my position. With every new fight, I awaken to the truth that they are both immutable. These days, when Amma calls me and cries about the thrashing she received from Appa the previous night, I feel helpless and even sometimes wish she would just leave me alone. Appa always has an explanation for losing his temper. As they battle like bitter enemies, I watch from afar, wondering why my father went to all the trouble to win over my mother—a woman with real guts—to be his wife.
Appa never seems to attach much importance to his bad behavior. He probably thinks it is his right as a man. On the other hand, having had a taste of independence while she was in Singapore earning her own money, Amma is no longer prepared to give up all her rights, especially her right to an opinion.
Nothing has changed for my parents. There is no possibility for altering their existence. Life is a brutal ritual for them both, a never-ending battle. They seem to live, I think, for the sake of living.
As I was about to leave home to return to school at the end of the vacation, Uncle Naresh and I made eye contact briefly. The look he gave me was that of a stranger. ‘Bye, Mama,’ I said. Then I walked out. That was it. I felt sad for him but knew there was no turning back.
Back at school, I heard from my cousin Devya that my grandparents were looking for yet another girl for Uncle Naresh, as the previous proposal had fallen through. Now I knew for sure the family had given up on me marrying him and I was relieved. Looking back, I can’t explain why I allowed myself to get caught up in my grandparents’ vision of us together. Maybe it was for the excitement of it—to have a man’s affection and to be wanted. It was beginning to dawn on me that this need to be wanted was at the root of much that had gone wrong in my life.
I also heard that Kavya had become friendly with the same two louts who had confronted me. She believed them when they promised to take her away from the life she hated and buy her the things she desired. It frightened me to think that she was often with them, but sitting miles away at school, there was nothing I could do about it.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: PASSING THROUGH DANGER
Ms. Nirmala charged into our class and ordered, ‘Children, none of you may leave the school building. There will be no snack break and assembly today.’ I stared in confusion. Beads of perspiration dotted her face; I had never seen her so frightened before. ‘The cleaning staff is on strike. They have shut down the kitchen and locked the main school gate. It is not safe for any of you to leave this building,’ she said, before stopping at last to catch her breath. She didn’t pause to answer the questions we threw at her, and fled the room to spread the instructions to all the other classes.
‘Why are they protesting?’ I asked, turning around to face those behind me. Amuda looked blank.
‘Let’s go see what is happening,’ Avinash suggested, jumping up from his chair and rushing towards the doorway.
‘Sit down. We’ll get into trouble with Ms. Nirmala,’ I warned.
But everyone was too excited to sit quietly, and followed him to the small balcony that provided a clear view of the campus. After hesitating for a few moments, I too ran after them, unable to resist the temptation any longer.
We watched Ms. Nirmala and the senior managers trying hard to pacify a group of furious cleaning staff. Malamma, the eldest and most aggressive, stood slightly in front of the others, her fist raised in a threatening gesture at the school staff. They were shouting in Kannada and Telugu all sorts of demands. Their foul cursing reminded me of the way women in my village became embroiled in bitter arguments with their neighbors over stolen chickens or suspected affairs.
Just then Ms. Nirmala noticed us peering from the balcony. ‘Get back to your classrooms. Please listen to our instructions, children,’ she shouted. We obeyed, but only because we sensed punishment would follow if we didn’t.
Dread filled my stomach. This was utterly strange. I had never before seen any of these women behaving offensively. In the past, every time I ran into them, we would exchange smiles and catch up about each other’s families. They showered me with affection and warmth as if I were as dear to them as a daughter. Watching them working hard around campus reminded me of my own mother during the years she was toiling away as a laborer.
Nearly two dozen laborers from the nearby villages worked at Shanti Bhavan. They cleaned the dormitories and school buildings, swept the grounds, took care of the laundry, and washed kitchen utensils. Workers who had left recently for their own reasons were not replaced as we had taken on some of the day-to-day tasks in the wake of the financial crisis. Until now, there had not been any strike or lockout.
Back in our classroom, the uncertainty of the standoff left everyone in suspense. Keerthi posted herself at the doorway, gathering news from any staff who walked past and faithfully conveying information to the rest of us. Some of the teachers stood in small groups whispering amongst themselves. They seemed as perplexed as we were. I sat anxiously waiting for someone to assure us everything would be all right.
Finally Keerthi excitedly announced that DG had summoned the entire school immediately for an emergency assembly. We hurried down the stairs anxiously.
DG stood tall in the center of the stage waiting for everyone to quiet down. I shot Kavina an irritated look as she continued to chatter.
‘Children, you must have heard by now that the laborers are on strike?’ DG opened his address. Heads nodded in unison. ‘Well, they are unhappy with the Foundation for having let go several workers on our farm. But we had good reasons for doing that.’
DG explained that after stopping the banana cultivation a year ago due to financial pressures, the farm w
as now growing only vegetables for our own consumption on small parcels of land. Many of the excess farm workers had been retained until now to give them time to find employment elsewhere. Now that sufficient time had passed, their jobs were terminated. But they were angry at being let go and rose in protest, seeking to rally the support of the cleaning staff in Shanti Bhavan.
‘Children, don’t be afraid. If they refuse to work, we will,’ DG said. A strong sense of determination welled up in me, and I was ready to do whatever was required to keep the school running. We had come close to losing it the year before and found a way. We would do it again. I could see that same feeling written on the faces of all those around me.
‘By sunrise tomorrow morning, Shanti Bhavan will shine again,’ DG said, clasping his hands together in a show of assurance. I didn’t know where he found such optimism in challenging times.
We gathered with the school staff and put together a plan of action. There was eager enthusiasm amongst us to show that we could go on without the help of the cleaning staff who were still battering us with loud chants from outside the school building. We thought about locking them out from entering the school the next morning, but DG was insistent we not do anything that could lead to more hostility. ‘Aggressive actions only invite vengeance. And that is not the way problems should be solved,’ he said. Strangely, at that moment, he reminded me of Atticus from my favorite book, To Kill a Mockingbird, teaching me to remain strong and fight for what is right, but never at the risk of violence.
The next day we woke up early and began our new routine. Despite all the newly assigned work, no one complained. Some of the boys even preferred hard work like digging and shoveling to sitting in class. I felt very grown-up going from dorm to dorm, sweeping the floors and clearing out the laundry. The little ones who didn’t understand what was going on mistook our work as punishment for some mischief. As I worked my way back to my dorm after putting the clothes out to dry, I found DG squatting on the lawn. At first I couldn’t make out what he was doing, but as I moved closer, his sharp, practiced movements became clearer; he was weeding.
The cleaning staff on strike gathered to talk amongst themselves in the dining hall after watching all the work getting done without them. None of them had expected us to react so calmly to their mutiny. They were ready to call off the strike and return to work if DG would talk to them. But DG wasn’t willing to negotiate or to let things return to the way they had been, as though nothing had happened.
‘Tell them what they have done is wrong,’ he said to the managers. ‘Shanti Bhavan is a home and a school for children from poor families like theirs. It is not a factory.’ There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that DG would stand firm. He wouldn’t address their grievances until we could return to our dorms. It was now a question of who had greater staying power.
To our surprise, the situation took a dramatic change for the better in an hour. The managers came back to inform DG that the laborers had called off the strike. They were afraid of losing their jobs when they realized the school could function without them and that they had lost DG’s trust with their betrayal.
But we were wrong to assume the matter had been settled. Weeks later, we were surprised to see DG going about all day wearing a cap, something that he rarely did. I assumed he had just taken a liking to it. But when I saw Ms. Denny, who usually worked from her office in Bangalore, on campus that afternoon, I realized there was more to it.
News spread that DG had been hurt in an attack. At first, he didn’t speak to anyone about it; he didn’t want to frighten us. But eventually he decided everyone needed to be alerted to the possibility of a similar incident happening to the staff or children as he had encountered.
Early that morning around one or two o’clock, DG was awakened with a start by a loud bang. He touched his head and found blood running over his fingers. Turning on the light, he found a large stone, half the size of a brick, lying on the floor. Someone had flung the rock through the glass window, and it had bounced off the headboard and struck him hard on his head. His army instincts took over and he immediately found cover behind the dresser and lay still. He spent the next few hours on the floor, pressing a towel against the cut on his head to control the bleeding.
We learnt that a powerful landlord, Murga Gunna, was behind the trouble. Since the school opened, many landlords resented the fact that their own children were not getting the education that Shanti Bhavan offered to children from poor families. Furthermore, as many families found employment in projects run by our organization and earned fair wages, the subservient village community was beginning to gain a measure of independence, and landlords blamed the Foundation for their having lost control over the poor.
Murga Gunna had secretly joined with a manager at our farm to foment the strike. Seeing an opportunity to display their power, the workers were prepared to follow his directions; their loyalty was easy to purchase. I had heard Grandmother telling me of similar incidents where politicians incited poor people to create conflicts between communities for personal gain, usually to win elections.
DG learnt from local supporters in the village that Murga Gunna had hired a criminal to throw the rock. But DG didn’t want to file a police complaint against the landlord without sufficient evidence, so instead he sent two strong men from the nearby town to warn Murga Gunna of serious consequences if he continued to cause trouble: charges for attempted murder would be filed in court. Everyone knew the police would take action if they were paid enough bribe.
But yet again, one evening after dinner, just when we thought our troubles with Murga Gunna were over, we spotted a fiery blaze raging through the wild vegetation outside DG’s residence. School security guards responded quickly with water hoses to put out the fire. At that point, DG took further precautions. He kept pepper sprays in his room and office, and restricted information about his whereabouts to certain trusted staff members. Still, he was vulnerable while travelling at night on the lonely roads leading to Shanti Bhavan. It became clear to me that ‘doing good’ brought many dangers with it.
The time had come to secure the premises with additional guards and keep a school workforce that was friendly. Laborers who were known to be mischief-makers were assigned to the vegetable farm outside the main campus. It was risky to dismiss them immediately, so DG had to wait for the right opportunity. He finally got his chance a few months later when someone stole several irrigation pipes from the farm. The management immediately announced that what remained of the farm would also close, with all workers being let go.
A month later, the manager who was believed to be collaborating with Murga Gunna was found with a village woman in his room on campus. Crimes of that sort were looked upon seriously in the villages, though such escapades were not uncommon. He was asked to leave or face prostitution charges. The manager had no choice but to resign.
With all the troublemakers gone from Shanti Bhavan, DG assured the remaining laborers that their jobs were safe. After those incidents, no more labor problems troubled Shanti Bhavan. In fact, Murga Gunna then even tried to befriend the school management. Knowing that Gunna would cooperate if he could earn money from the school, DG instructed the staff to buy eggs from his poultry farm.
DG was tough in the face of danger but willing to compromise to win over his enemies, and soft when others needed him most. After all that conflict, I realized that true strength lies not in how many you defeat but in how many you win over.
Despite the restoration of calmness, the school’s financial difficulties continued to remain a worry. Each day we waited for positive news, still harboring fears that our dreams of a good future could suddenly be shattered.
The unexpected finally happened. One morning DG came to the assembly with an announcement. Standing on the concrete stage before us, he said, ‘Shanti Bhavan will not shut down, no matter what. I will not let anything destroy what we have built together.’ He went on to say that all of us would share not just our joys but our har
dships as well, no matter what the future held. I had not seen DG radiate so much self-confidence since the onset of the financial crisis. A bright rainbow had emerged from the thunderous storm that had kept us fearful of what the next day would bring.
‘If necessary, we will grow our own food on our own land, older children will teach the younger ones, and at night we will study by candlelight. Aunties, teachers, and volunteers who wish to live in Shanti Bhavan will look after you and teach you.’ A chorus of happy chatter broke from the crowd of children and staff members.
DG went on to explain that his efforts to get help from several rich industrialists had failed. Apparently, their interest in Shanti Bhavan was for investment, not charity. He concluded with a determined message, ‘Children and staff, we will get through this together.’
DG’s words held a different meaning for each of us. Sheena who was brought as an orphan, and Shoba—no longer recognizable as the frightened five-year-old who had come with me from my village on that first day—were being supported fully for their studies in college and never again had to fear being abandoned. For me, there would be a way out of my village. For all of us, the security of Shanti Bhavan in our lives meant we could continue dreaming of a good future. We had been given another chance at pursuing a good life. Karma had orchestrated a terrific piece of magic.
Although that day brought my classmates and me together, it wasn’t long before our problems resurfaced. Except this time, it wasn’t the result of any mischief. My feverish studying for the final national board examination, the results of which would determine which colleges might accept me, triggered their outright resentment, ostensibly for not spending enough time with them.